


Why the Doctor Doesn't Do Pillow Talk

by Dustbunnygirl



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Post-Episode: 2015 Xmas The Husbands of River Song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 08:06:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5777878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dustbunnygirl/pseuds/Dustbunnygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor has a lot to learn about post-coital conversation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why the Doctor Doesn't Do Pillow Talk

Around day three of their twenty four-year night, the Doctor’s concept of pillow talk took on a morbid quality.

“Twenty-two people,” he said, without explanation or preamble as he sank, sweat-slick and breathless beside a naked and panting River Song.

“‘Twenty-two people’ what? Did I miss a conversation in all that moaning, or are you suddenly keeping score?” River rolled onto her side and laid her hand on the Doctor - her Doctor’s - chest. Both his hearts beat in perfect, gradually slowing rhythm. “If it’s the last one, considering how old you are, I’m definitely not impressed.”

“River.” He looked at her with that mildly annoyed and displeased look unique to this face; this new, older face she’d never seen before, with eyes so much older than even the lines etched in his skin portrayed. That, in a way, had always been true of her love. But it was a much sharper difference now than before. There was a loneliness inherent in this face. “Don’t travel alone,” she’d told him. She wondered how long he had.

“I’m not saying you haven’t had very, very good teachers otherwise, my love, but after twelve hundred years…”

Something painful and dark flickered in those old, old eyes. She’d seen it several times since they arrived on Darillium. It always came whenever she asked where he’d just been or mentioned his age. For once, he had all the spoilers. He was finally living a life she knew nothing about. It terrified her.

He rolled out of bed and went to the window of their room, pulling back a corner of curtain to let in the sun and the smallest peek of Darillium’s greatest landmarks. It wasn’t just a restaurant with a great view of the Singing Towers. There was a hotel, too, and all it took to secure the presidential suite was the Doctor’s charming grin and a flash of the old psychic paper. The view beyond their window was breathtaking. The view before it, in River’s opinion, outshone it entirely. He might not have been a young man anymore, her Doctor, but he was still the most beautiful man she’d ever laid eyes on. The sight of his silhouette, backlit by the sun beyond the curtains, made her heart ache. This day, however long they managed to make it actually last, was the last time they’d see each other. Something in her heart knew that beyond question.

“Died by elevator,” he said, and River didn’t immediately understand. “Twenty-two people in New York City died by elevator in 1920. Crushed to death, in fact.”

“Yes, well, I can see how that would suddenly come to mind after making love to your wife.” River resisted the urge to ask if he frequently thought about being crushed to death while in bed with her. Knowing him - whether she understood all the bells and whistles of this regeneration yet or not - he hadn’t done the math to figure out why it might not be good conversation fodder.

“Of course that’s not when it came to mind.” She couldn’t see the details of his face, but she saw that his head had turned her direction. She could imagine the blasé tilt of his lips and the unbothered directness in his eyes. “Did that during.”

She laughed. She couldn’t help herself. She rolled onto her other side and laughed. The sliver of sunlight provided by the corner of peeled-back curtain glinted off something on the bedside table. Beside those damned obnoxious sunglasses - she really needed to find Clara Oswald and ask her how she let him go on with that nonsense - the sonic screwdrivers sat, his new swish model next to hers, hers dwarfed in comparison. Another chuckle escaped her, unbidden as she looked at the two of them side by side.

“What?” It was his turn to ask, after all.

“Nothing,” she said, reaching for his sonic and pointing it at the ceiling. “Just wondering something, that’s all.”

His silhouette tilted its head in the classic curious Doctor pose. Some things didn’t change no matter the regeneration. “It works just like all the others. Point, press, whizz, whir.”

“Not what I was wondering.” She rolled slowly back onto her other side, one arm bent to balance her head on her hand, the other draped lazily over her midsection. The sonic laid loosely in her hand, propped against the linens. “Do you purposefully make them bigger every time, or is it just coincidence?” A salacious grin curled her lush, wicked lips. “Is the TARDIS trying to boost your ego as you get older? Helping you compensate for some…regenerative shortcomings?”

Even backlit, she saw those thick, nearly sentient eyebrows dip inward in mock sternness. “I think you need a reminder how much I don’t need to compensate for anything.” With the energy of a much younger man, he leapt onto the bed. Laughter turned to wispy sighs and delicious moans soon enough.

Sometimes, the towers aren’t the only things on Darillium that sing.


End file.
